


Off The Map

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood, Come Eating, Consensual Thramsay, Consensual Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, D/s, Horses - not like horse-fucking but like lots of talk about horses, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Ramsay is his own warning, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: Ramsay and Theon head out into the wilderness for a weekend alone, where they don't have to pretend anything. There still ends up being quite a lot of blood. Heed the tags/warnings!Part of LelithSugar's Canon-divergent AU in which Ramsay and Theon's apparent relationship in ASOIAF/GoT is an elaborate cover for a consensual BDSM relationship.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LelithSugar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/gifts).



> So, this is my debut, both here on AO3 and in this fandom. This piece is part of LelithSugar's Consensual!Thramsay AU. The main concepts are all hers and she is lovely for letting me hijack them. I really recommend reading some of hers first so you get a feel for their dynamic. 
> 
> Essentially, it's spun off from the canon at the start of Season Three of the show, with Theon captured at the Dreadfort. But in this version, Theon is a shameless masochistic whore, Ramsay is a sadist who revels in his terrifying reputation; they’re in a happy, consensual (albeit very twisted, BDSM-themed) relationship, with the torture and abuse mostly used as a cover-up to maintain their public personas and allow them to live out their perverted fantasies to their hearts’ content. Theon is (mostly) whole, with the whole cutting-bits-off thing simply the result of a rumour gone wild. He does have a lot of very interesting scars, though. 
> 
> Day One is setting the scene. If you REALLY want your porn-fix in a hurry, skip through to Day Two.

Theon rides a horse with a hide as scarred and scabbed as his own, to the right and half a length behind Ramsay whose richly-trimmed cloak matches his glossy, well-muscled mount in both quality and coin. The air is crisp, just above the point of frost; every exhalation turns to mist and every inspiration brings scents of wood smoke, pine, porridge, and steaming fresh horseshit. Theon - _Reek_ \-  keeps his shoulders hunched, head bowed, hands low, and reins loose; his horse will follow Ramsay's with no direction from him - he has no input in where they're going, anyway. The cracking leather of his tack creaks with the weight of the bags and packs he was handed the day before, the Bolton Bastard not being one to bring a pack mule when a mounted manservant is available. He's also not one to carry a damn thing unless he absolutely has to; Reek is wedged solidly into place in the gaps between the luggage. The horse he's on looks absurdly overburdened with its skinny frame and spindly legs.  

Ramsay sets a brisk walk out of the keep and along the stone road through the town, nodding imperiously at assorted keep folk and being every inch the Lord, despite the regular hawk and spit or muttered oaths behind them. Conversations still as they approach and swell to low murmurs as they leave. Occasionally someone particularly brave or stupid calls out louder than the others and is hurriedly hushed; once by bodily forcing the moron facedown into the mud. And constantly there's the whispering. "The Bastard", "Ramsay", "that Snow devil". His aliases send ripples through the people, causing work to be paused and children to peep through windows to get their first glimpse of the demon their parents use to threaten them. Ramsay sits tall, lip curled in a cruel smile, giving them something to talk about in the pubs this evening. Though he takes care never to turn his head to look, Theon can't help but see the respectfully bowed heads raising the moment the Bastard passes, and expressions of fear or anger writ large on pale, anxious faces.   

Ramsay isn't alone in his notoriety. Children ask who Theon is and parents respond in a thousand different ways, their comments about him drifting anonymously above the milling bodies. "The Devil's Hand", "the Bastard's slave", "Ramsay's pet", "the spy", "Snow's lover", "Bolton's bodyguard", "Roose's assassin"... He fills every role they could imagine. Rarely, someone will murmur "Reek" and he shivers, wondering what they think of him when they say that name, what stories they've heard. Some people are frightened of him, some are hateful, most are pitying, offering the smallest sympathetic smiles or nods. He tries not to see, cringing away into himself.   

They ride on. Street by street, minute by minute, roadway by narrowing roadway they leave people behind to whisper and gossip and continue steadily on, making their way north; away from the dubious civilisation of the Dreadfort and its surrounds and out into the depths of the steep, forested wilderness, vaguely toward the Last River. The stone road turns to muddy gravel and is pitted with puddles and holes, forcing the horses to pick their way along, choosing their footing with care. They ride in silence, Ramsay humming tunelessly to himself, Reek just trying to keep warm and ignore the cramps in his calves and toes; it's been a long time since he's ridden so far. The road climbs steadily up, the landscape grows steadily more desolate, the villages and smallholdings they pass get steadily rarer. Theon watches his lord closely for the smallest signal.

  


It's a full five hours and interminable miles before Ramsay turns his horse off the road, toward the thigh-high ruins of an ancient cottage. He swings down from the saddle as if he'd only been riding for minutes. Reek scrambles to get off his own mount, stiff legs tangling amongst clinging bags and straps. Ramsay  pisses against a tree before taking a large pack from Reek's bundles and seating himself on a wall, where he begins to clean his nails with the tip of his belt knife. He says nothing, spares not a glance or gesture for his companion. After a moment of hesitation and a confused glance around at the utterly empty landscape, Reek busies himself with tasks to serve his lord - before he's given something more unpleasant to do. He begins to see to the horses, loosening girths, removing bits and checking hooves. There's a little brook behind the ruin for them to drink, then he hobbles them to graze on the scrubby, yellowing grass at the roadside.  

Having run out of obvious tasks, Reek goes back to Ramsay to await whatever happens next with no small amount of trepidation. He walks at a smart pace, not wanting to be seen to be dawdling. Head up but eyes respectfully down, he stands two paces behind his master, ever the attentive, dutiful servant; though trying desperately not to let his teeth chatter. Away from the horses' body heat, the cold seeps into his bones. There can’t be another human near them for miles. The loneliness stretches out around them and time almost seems to pause, so far from any witnesses. Reek coughs, more to break the unnerving silence than to announce his presence. After a short moment Ramsay greets him with a wide smile and throws a large wad of bundled up fabric at him.  

"Gods, Thee, put some proper clothes on before you freeze your balls off." He hops down from the wall and hands him a small flask, eyes bright, a broad happy grin across his face. It takes a few heartbeats of hesitation and then Theon relaxes, coming out of his servant's pose, standing upright and raising his head properly. He takes a nip and the warmth of smooth brandy warms his guts and numbs the back of his tongue. He sips again and hands the flask back to investigate the bundle, which turns out to be a thick dark brown winter cloak wrapped around warm woollen clothes, his own sturdy boots - rarely worn these days - and a small box he knows will contain shaving gear, soap and clean cloths.

"No gloves?" Theon asks, rooting through the bundle. He cuts a strange sight: pitiful peasant’s clothes and covered in dirt, but a lord’s voice and a prince’s confident stance.

"In one of the boots, the other has socks" Ramsay companionably offers him a chicken leg. "Food first, or change first?"  

"Food first." Theon drops the clothes into a pile and swings the cloak around his shoulders, snuggling gratefully into the warmth of its folds, then takes the meat. He tilts his head back, rocking his hips side to side, stretching out his spine and rolling his shoulders. Standing upright and straight again, he seems to have grown taller and broader, no longer hunching in on himself. At his true height, he's taller than Ramsay - which would surprise most people at the keep. “You had to string it out as long as possible, didn’t you?”

“Hmmn?” Ramsay asks, his mask of innocence ruined by the twitching of a smile on his lips.  

Theon grumbles at him through a mouthful of chicken. “Riding for so long with Reek. Why couldn’t we have stopped miles ago?”

Ramsay shrugs, a little chagrined. “Better safe than sorry, lovely.” He rubs at Theon’s upper arms, trying to get some warmth back into him. “You could have said something, at any point…”

“Oh shush. Like Reek is going to ask the Bolton Bastard for a tea break.” Theon rolls his eyes, mock glaring.  

“Well… yes. Okay. You make a good point. I’m sorry.” Ramsay presses a kiss onto Theon’s knuckles. “But now it’s just you and me and I promise to make it up to you.” There’s just the faintest hint of a wink and Theon’s stomach flutters, wondering what Ramsay has planned for them on this trip.  

They sit together on the broken wall and eat with their fingers. The chicken is cold of course, but the savoury greasiness is welcome and Ramsay follows it with small pies which spill meaty gravy over their hands, and slices of dense cake filled with pieces of dried fruit. The brandy passes back and forth between them often, both too focused on the food to make much conversation.  Theon leans against Ramsay, ostensibly for warmth, but also just enjoying being able to. It’s rare that they can be themselves outside of a locked door.  

Ramsay brushes crumbs off the front of his jerkin and stands, stretching. "I'll do the horses," he offers and Theon nods, still chewing on cake, happy to let Ramsay do some work for a change. He watches Ramsay wander over to the hobbled horses, his imperious Lord act dropped, sliding back into the loping country-boy stride of his childhood. He seems happy, unencumbered by having to be his father’s heir. Theon has one last tot of brandy before going behind the ruin to make use of the stream for shaving water. He’s looking forward to being clean-shaven again. Reek wears an inch or so beard which is constantly patchy, dirty and even scorched. While it’s a useful part of the disguise, he’s never really become used to it.

When he returns, washed, shaved and blessedly warmly dressed, Ramsay has redistributed the packs across the two horses and is already mounted up. He waves happily at Theon’s reappearance and makes a 'hurry up' gesture. Theon uses the cottage wall as a mounting block, settling stiffly back into the saddle, thigh muscles complaining at being back on horseback again so quickly. They re-join the road, the Lord and his ragged servant transformed into two wealthy young men riding together, stirrup to stirrup.   

"Where are we going?" Theon asks - he still has no idea what’s in store, hasn’t even been able to peek into the bags for clues, and the curiosity is filling his mind with a thousand possibilities.  

Ramsay just smiles. "Away." He nudges his horse up to a trot and Theon is surprised that his ragged plug needs no encouragement to keep up. "Away from everyone!" Ramsay calls through a gust of wind. He glances sideways at Theon. Eyes bright. "Race you!"

 

Theon has no time to complain about the unfairness of the race before Ramsay's muscular hunter surges forward into canter and then gallop, Ramsay riding low and small in the saddle. They start to disappear up the track. Theon's horse snorts and launches itself into the chase, forcing Theon to make a wild grab for its mane to keep seated. He feels its lungs swell as it takes in extra air, feels the wiry muscle bunching under its skin. Leg length unfolds from seemingly nowhere and within seconds it's galloping full-pelt.  Theon lets out a whoop of excitement and gives the horse its head, urging it on.   

The race is brief. While Ramsay's hunter is faster, it's winded a few miles in, the rough terrain too much for it to cope with. Theon's scruffy nag just keeps loping on with its unusually smooth gait, dancing over the unstable stones, eating up the distance. There's a tense few minutes of riding neck and neck before it's obvious that Ramsay's has given all it's got while Theon's horse is still doing well. Theon lets it go until Ramsay has dwindled into the distance, then pulls up the horse to rest. It's breathing hard, but not struggling. The run seems to have done it some good, its eyes are bright and its ears are pricked.   

With nothing to do but wait until Ramsay arrives, Theon grabs handfuls of tough grass stems and wipes his horse down, noting that once the mud and dirt has been scraped off its hide is in much better condition than it looks at first glance. Hoof steps grow closer as Ramsay draws nearer, his horse trotting sluggishly. Theon reaches out to hold its head while Ramsay dismounts. "What the fuck is that thing? I thought it was half-dead!" he demands, eyes shining at his calmly grazing mount.   

Ramsay beams at him. "She's Dothraki. She can be ridden from dawn and still charge into battle in the evening. The Martells are bringing them over for their crazy three-day endurance races."

"She's incredible. I had no idea. She looked like dogmeat to me when I first saw her." Theon runs his hands over the horse's slender legs, amazed that such spindly limbs can support such a hardy animal.

Ramsay cocks his head. "You like her?"   

"She's amazing." Theon rubs her cheek, letting her lip at his cloak.   

"Good. She's yours." Ramsay nods.   

Theon shakes his head. "What? No. Don't be ridiculous."  

Ramsay shrugs. "Why not?"  

Theon's horse snorts with appropriate timing. "Because, Ram, this is a fucking amazing race horse.” Theon hunches up, shrinking into Reek's submissive pose, his voice weakening into a pleading quaver. “It's not exactly the ride for your poor, battered Reek."  He shakes himself and stands up again. "We can't. It just can't be explained."  

Ramsay's lips twitch and he grins "Ah! You said yourself you thought she was dogmeat. Reek would ride dogmeat.” He nods authoritatively. “And besides, no one knows where she comes from, no one thinks she’s worth anything. The only people alive who know what she is are you and me."   

There's a certain weight to the phrasing that makes Theon bite back his retort. Ramsay gazes at him with steady blue eyes. Theon blinks. He knows, just knows, that whoever bought this horse and brought it to the Dreadfort for Lord Bolton's Bastard is not going to be telling any tales on them. Or any tales at all. Ramsay dislikes loose ends. He tends to cut them off before they cause trouble.   

Ramsay pats his own, sweaty horse. "She's yours. Bought and paid for. You can fret about it or you can enjoy her." He gathers up his reins and swings back into the saddle. "Come on, I'd like to get there before nightfall."

Theon exasperatedly shakes his head one last time, but readies his mount and follows nonetheless. "Where are we going?" he asks again, but Ramsay just kicks his tired horse back up into a trot. “I’m going to find out eventually, stop being so bloody mysterious!” Theon calls out to him, letting his Dothraki mare stretch her legs out to catch up.

“You’ll find out eventually, so why do I have to tell you?” Ramsay counters, sticking his tongue out. Theon lets it go and they ride on for a while, Ramsay setting a pace just a bit brisker than his hunter would like.

“Gods, look at this, Ram…” Theon gestures at the horse he’s riding and the effortless way she’s gliding along the pebbly road. “You would have no idea she’d just beaten him in a race, would you?” Ramsay’s stockier, heavier mount is having a hard time of it, puffing with every stride.

“They’re amazing animals, aren’t they? Looks aside, the Dothraki definitely breed some good horseflesh.” Ramsay allows his horse to slow to a plodding walk so they could talk. “The dealer I bought her from said that she could cover three hundred miles over three days - and from what I hear from the endurance riders down in Dorne, that might actually be somewhere near truth.”

Theon shakes his head. “Those Martells are fucking crazy. Why would you want to trek across the desert for days on end, just to say you were the fastest? There isn’t even a prize!” He shudders. “No way I would do it.”

Ramsay snorts. “As good a ride as you are, Thee, I’m fairly sure they do it on actual horses…”

“Oh har har!” Theon swats at him, huffing at the joke.

“Actually, that’s quite the statement: _you_ saying that you wouldn’t go for some kind of physical punishment.” Ramsay seems thoughtful. “The Martells might be tougher than I thought.”

“I like my physical punishment to over within a day, preferably ending with me coming at least once, thanks.” Theon drops his reins onto his mare’s neck and stretches his arms up, trying to relieve the muscle ache in his lower back. Ramsay watches him, shamelessly eyeing the band of pale skin revealed as his shirt lifts up with the movement. “Drowned god, Ram, how much longer are we fucking riding for?” Theon rotates his shoulder, grimacing at a flash of cramp.

“Oh stop moaning!” Ramsay laughs at him. “Some fucking kraken you’d have made! On a boat, out of sight of land for weeks at a time, whinging incessantly the whole bloody time…”

Theon looks affronted. “It’s not the same at all! You can do stuff on a boat! You can walk around and eat  or dice or-”

“-have a bit of cock in the back of the hold?” Ramsay teases.

“…now you come to mention it…” Theon licks his lips, remembering.

“You never did!” Ramsay looks shocked. “Balon’s heir being speared below decks? Absolutely not.”

Theon shrugs. “It was dark. Neither of us knew who the other was.”

Ramsay smirks at him. “You fucking hope so…”

“Hardly matters now, does it? Now everyone knows I take it up the shitter whenever m’lord desires.” Theon grins. It feels good to actually say it. _Everyone knows_. He has no secrets any more. No hiding. Somehow this huge lie they’ve created has set him freer than he could ever have imagined.

“Yes they do.” Ramsay grabs his hand and squeezes his fingers. “Though they don’t know just quite how very well or enthusiastically you do it - or quite how much you make me desire it.”

“Ugh, flatterer…” Theon yanks his hand back. “But really, Ram; where the _fuck_ are we going?”

“I’m taking you to Casterly Rock for an evening of dinner and dancing.” Ramsay deadpanned. “Will you shut up about it? There’s a turning up here that I need to keep an eye out for.”

“Just fucking tell me!” Theon complains with a grin.

Ramsay presses his lips together and shakes his head. “The more you ask, the more determined I am not to tell you.”

Theon huffs. “Ugh, you’re impossible.”

Ramsay blows a kiss at him. “You love me.” He nudges his horse back up to a gentle trot. “Come on, we need to make better time.”

“Gods help me, I do…” Theon murmurs, following.

  
  
Twilight is succumbing to darkness by the time Ramsay leads them off the narrow track they're following and takes his horse down the bed of a shallow stream, heading deeper still into the forest. Despite the change of clothes, Theon is chilled again and he pulls his cloak closer around him, hoping that there will be an endpoint to this incredibly long day sometime soon. Every muscle in his body seems to ache and he fervently hopes that Ramsay isn't planning any activities tonight. He feels on the verge of falling asleep in the saddle.   

It's only by looking up and seeing stars instead of branches that Theon realises that they've moved into a clearing. Ramsay is dismounting and leading his exhausted horse toward a large dark shadow which slowly resolves into a small stone barn as Theon approaches. He slides down and follows Ramsay into the darkness.   

There is muttering and clattering and then the slow soft glow of a lantern being coaxed into life. Ramsay hooks it onto a protruding nail and gestures around in the gloom. "Straw. Hay. Should be feed in that barrel." He takes a stalk of straw and uses it to light a second lantern from the first. "I'll try to get a fire started next door." He flashes a smile, but Theon knows he's grumpy and tired as well. He nods acknowledgement and starts to unburden the horses, hunching down and hurrying. Like Reek.   

It takes almost an hour to untack, feed, water and rub down both horses. The task is made no easier by the cold and the darkness. The hay and straw are stored in a loft accessed by a spindly ladder which is terrifying to climb whilst holding a lantern. Theon wonders sometimes if the dim light just makes the shadows seem darker and more impenetrable.

Aching all over and with numb fingers and toes, he closes the big barn door on the happily pampered horses and feels his way along the wall until he finds a little wooden door.   

Inside, Ramsay has managed to light the fire and several lanterns, giving the single room a cosy orange glow. It's sparsely furnished with a table and benches and a dilapidated bed which is dressed with musty-smelling sheets and furs. A large stack of firewood is piled in the far corner and various utensils and appliances for daily life hang from the walls or the rafters. There is a thick layer of dust over everything. Despite being fully equipped, this cottage isn't in use. Theon steers his mind away from wondering what happened to the occupants.   

Ramsay has been setting out food, putting meat into a kettle to simmer for soup. Theon's mouth waters and he realises that he's starving. Battered metal plates and bowls are stacked on a shelf above the fireplace and Theon wordlessly sets out a pair, finding crude cutlery on a windowsill. There's a half-empty bucket of water which he uses to rinse the dust off everything, fully aware of Ramsay's pickiness about clean tableware. Ramsay stirs the pot in silence. Theon takes the bucket to get fresh water, then brings in the last of the packs from the barn, not wanting to have to go out into the cold and fetch something later.

When he returns, Ramsay is ladling out generous portions of something which is mostly meat and thick gravy. But it's hot and tasty and they both wolf it down. Ramsay sets a bottle of brandy on the table and they share the two metal mugs; one for water, one for brandy. The fire crackles cheerfully and Theon sighs contentedly as he warms up, belly full and feeling gently softened by the liquor.   

Ramsay reaches across the table and grasps his hand. "You are beautiful in the firelight, you know." His voice is soft and gentle and it makes Theon's stomach lurch.   

"So...  I'm beautiful when you can barely see me..." he teases, never quite comfortable with when Ramsay's mood turns romantic. It’s lovely, but it’s not their usual relationship and sometimes he doesn’t really know how to respond. He’d never been good at romance. Wenching, whoring and sucking men off in the back of the stables, yes; but not romance.  

Ramsay half smiles, acknowledging the broken compliment. "You are. I wish people could see you like I see you."  

"If people saw me like you see me I wouldn't ever be able to walk or sit." Theon squeezes Ramsay's hand, adding sweetness to his tart words. Ramsay huffs a short laugh.  

"Possibly." He offers the brandy to Theon who shakes his head, already feeling a bit too giddy. He drains the last mouthful from the mug and rubs at his lips. "Maybe it's better I keep you to myself." He stands pulls on his cloak, leaving the cottage to piss. The wave of cold outside air wakes Theon enough to stir him into getting up to bank the fire. He uses a handful of clean hay and water to wipe out the bowls and stew pot.   

Ramsay returns and warms himself for a moment in front of the fire, before shedding his boots and outer clothing. He jerks his head toward the bed. "Sleep?"  

Theon nods, the fatigue weighing heavy in his limbs. "I'll just be a minute." He wraps himself up against the chill but it still shocks him as he leaves the building. He relieves his bladder against a tree and then scuffs a shallow hole with the heel of his boot to shit into. Using freezing cold stream water to clean himself is distinctly unpleasant and draws an oath from his lips that would have shocked even his father. He dances awkwardly as he tries to wiggle back into his warm breeches before the water dripping down his thighs turns to ice.   

The cottage is a cosy haven after the frigid outside and Theon rapidly sheds his clothes and crawls into the bed with Ramsay. The bedding is surprisingly clean and smells slightly of damp lavender. It must have been well stored.  Ramsay wraps arms around his chest and pulls him in close, grumbling slightly at the chill of Theon's skin against his own warm flesh. Theon holds onto Ramsay's arm and interlocks their fingers, kissing his knuckles. Ramsay gives his hand a brief squeeze but makes no further move. Theon tentatively pushes his arse back into Ramsay's crotch, offering himself, but is rewarded only with a gentle snore. He smiles to himself in the firelight, basking in the warmth and comfort. His body aches and he knows his thigh and back muscles are going to punish him for today's riding. He relaxes against Ramsay's body and wonders what is in store for him tomorrow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has violence. And porn. So much porn.


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thramsay weekend away continues - violently.

The next day is blessedly warmer, and though Theon's body is painfully stiff when he wakes, he seems to have managed to come through the previous day's ride without any badly pulled muscles. He rises before Ramsay wakes, revives the embers of the fire and sets water to boil before going to check on the horses. In the daylight, the cottage reveals itself to be an old charcoal-burners' homestead; the big circles of charred earth still present. The barn half of the building is surprisingly snug and the horses seem well rested and bright. There's a scuff of footsteps behind him and Ramsay wraps his arms around him in a hug, resting his chin on Theon's shoulder. 

"You're up early." He nuzzles at the curve of Theon's jaw, his stubble grazing just a bit. 

Theon squirms happily. "I'm always up early. Got to serve m'lord." He rests his head back, exposing more of his neck to be nibbled. 

"Hmmn. Well yes. But you don't need to when it's just us." Ramsay sucks at Theon's neck just behind his ear, scraping with his teeth. 

Theon's eyes flutter. "I may as well. I like making you happy." He inhales as Ramsay's teeth nip lightly at his earlobe.

"Want to make me happy now?" Ramsay's voice is low, a growl. Theon's legs feel weak. He nods eagerly. Ramsay steps away and hands Theon a pair of halters. "I want you to take the horses downstream to graze." He grins at Theon's disappointed expression. "Follow the stream for a mile or so and you'll come out onto pasture. They'll be fine there for the day, in hobbles." He stares at Theon, daring him to object. 

Theon manages to hold his gaze for ten seconds, then bows his head. "Yes, m'lord," he mumbles, shrinking back into himself. 

Ramsay nods. "And while you're gone, I'll be getting ready for today's... happenings." His lip curls into his cruel smile, but his eyebrow quirks teasingly. Theon's cock twitches. 

"Yes, m'lord," he says again, more enthusiastically this time, with a wide smile. Ramsay flashes a shark's grin at him and ambles back to the warmth of the cottage, orders issued. 

Theon hurries to obey, using the horse trough to climb up bareback onto Ramsay's broad hunter and leading his own horse by the halter, he walks them down the streambed until the forest gives way to scrubby grassland, as promised. After hobbling the horses, Theon hurries back upstream, boots slipping on the muddy bank.  

By the time he's reached the clearing, he's worked himself up into quite the lather of aroused expectation. As usual, Ramsay has given him absolutely no idea of what will be happening, but the blind anticipation has become part of the game for Theon. Not knowing if he'll be smothered in oil and caressed or beaten until bloody and abandoned in the dark adds to his excitement. And truth be told, he would find it difficult to decide which he would prefer.

The cottage is empty when Theon peers cautiously in, though some of the furniture is missing; so after double-checking under the bed - the only possible hiding place - he goes to check the barn.

Ramsay has moved the table and one of the benches into the barn, along with a couple of furs from the bed which are covered with a sheet. The table holds a neat row of implements: a broad leather paddle, a short thick riding crop and a longer, swishy huntsman's crop, a wooden cane, and - causing Theon's mind to cloud with fervour - a bucket of clean water, lengths of leather cord and cloth strips, and Ramsay's little black box, the fix-up kit. Theon's body flares - Ramsay only brings the black box when he's expecting some fairly extensive damage to be done. The toys on the table are all familiar friends, but that takes nothing from his enthusiasm. His cock is hard already just at the promise of what Ramsay's going to do to him.

"You're early." Ramsay peers down from the hayloft, grinning. "In a hurry?" Theon only nods, brain not receiving enough blood flow to form coherent words. He enjoys the glorious view of Ramsay climbing down the ladder, muscular arse flexing with every rung. He's shirtless, wearing only his old sailor's canvas trousers which have been cut off at the knee. Theon is familiar with these pants. His blood has spattered across them many times; Ramsay brings them out when he's expecting things to get messy. 

He blinks. Ramsay is talking. He snaps back to attention, automatically grasping the mug that Ramsay is handing him. "Drink" is the order, issued in a soft, amused voice. Theon gulps the water, building up his body fluids ready for the oncoming assault. His hands are shaking. Ramsay watches him drain the mug and twirls his finger in a circle. Again. Theon dips it into the bucket and drinks more. Ramsay nods and takes up a long piece of strong fabric. 

Theon stands, transfixed, as Ramsay slowly begins to wind the cloth around his wrist and the palm of his hand. He spends a moment fussing with tucking the tail end of the knot neatly under a wrap and then begins on the other hand. Theon forces himself to keep drinking water but can't drag his eyes away from those hands and that careful, slow, deliberate binding process; the preparation of his wrists and hands demonstrating that he's intending to do something so violent that he needs to protect himself from injury. His vision closes in; all that matters in the world is Ramsay's gentle precautions for his beautiful, strong, cruel hands. He's so hard. His heart is beating so fast. His skin is flushed. He chews at his lip, impatiently waiting for instruction.

"Take your shirt off." Ramsay tilts his head toward his own shirt, neatly folded and resting on an upturned bucket in the corner. Theon hurries to comply, yanking the fabric over his head, fingers fumbling as he tries to fold it properly. He turns for his next instruction - and stops dead in surprise. 

Ramsay is standing in the centre of the barn, on tiptoe and barefoot, still only in his cut off canvas pants, arms stretched above his head, hands bound together and fastened to a large metal hook hanging from the huge central beam of the building's frame. The hanging pose. Theon knows it well, but has never been on this side of the restraints. He stares, mouth open, unable to process what kind of game this could be. Ramsay smirks at him. 

"Theon. The paddle." His voice is calm, though his breathing has quickened. Theon fetches it from the table and holds it out, head bowed, dutiful. Ramsay coughs, amused. "No, Thee. Don't give it to me. Hit me with it." He flexes his body, resting into the restraints, letting himself twist slightly to show more of his back. He glances over his shoulder. Jerks his head in invitation. "Hit me. Across the back. Come on."

Theon dithers in agonising indecision. Is this a test? He weighs the paddle in his hands. It's only leather. Broad and smooth. It doesn't leave many marks, so it hasn't been used on him much, but he knows how it feels. It's not so bad. Just a swipe. A child's spanking. He steps forward, raises his arm. Stops. 

Ramsay growls. "Greyjoy. Fucking hit me. I will not tell you again." He turns fully, presenting his bare back and all that expanse of smooth, perfect skin. Theon squeezes his eyes shut. He's never been a violent person. Of course he had learned to fight. Ned Stark had made sure he was properly drilled in archery, sword and hand-to-hand, just as any Lord's son would be. But Theon had always been much better at shooting an arrow from a distance than smacking a man in the padded helmet with a wooden sword. Something about the visceral brutality of pounding a blunt - never mind a sharp - object into someone's flesh had never given him anywhere near the same satisfaction and catharsis of receiving the same blow himself. And when he’d been rolling on his back with a hard-on while Jon Snow punched him into the mud, he hadn’t really had any incentive to change that situation by fighting back. When his sword work was grudgingly deemed satisfactory by the Stark's master at arms, he had been allowed to focus on the bow and distinguish himself as a marksman, not a brute. 

"Three." Ramsay threatens through gritted teeth. Theon's heart lurches. He has to do it. It's an order. He shuts his eyes again and lifts his arm, twisting his wrist in various ways as he tries to imagine how the strike will flow. 

"Two..." Ramsay's voice is a low, gentle murmur. The most dangerous. He's always most frightening when he sounds like his father. Theon takes a deep breath and swings wildly. The slap of leather on skin rings flatly and obscenely loud in the empty barn and Ramsay hisses an exhalation. Theon drops the paddle in shock and surprise, immediately pressing his cool hands against the reddening mark on Ramsay's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbles. "Are you all right?" He's fretting, panicking. He's hurt Ramsay. He's damaged him. His hands flutter all over the mark, checking and rechecking for any breaks to the skin, trying to cool the heat and the blush. 

"Greyjoy. Stop. Stand." Ramsay's orders are crisp, authoritative. Theon's body responds virtually automatically, snapping him into a submissive stand, hands behind his back, head bowed. Ramsay sighs and lifts himself onto his toes, relieving the weight on his arms. "Thee. Please. I promise you that this is what I want. I want you to make me hurt. I want to you leave me bruised and bloody. And when you've done it, I'll do whatever your sick and twisted little head wants me to do to you. But first, I need this. I need you to do this for me. Do you understand?"

"No!" Theon frets. "This isn't what happens. I don't want... I can't." He wrings his hands, scratches at his forearms. 

"You can, Greyjoy. And you fucking will." Ramsay growls. "You will because I am telling you to. And I don't give a shit about what you want or don't want, or what you like or don't like. You're going to do it because it's what I want." 

Theon's face screws up as he breathes through his internal conflict. Ramsay's comment about not caring about what he wanted had shot delight straight to his cock; and being forced to do unpleasant things was one of favourite things. But the desire to override his preferences to please his lord warred with his reluctance to inflict pain upon Ramsay. It just... wasn't how the world worked. Pain and discomfort flowed from Ramsay to Theon and that was as natural and proper as objects falling to the ground when thrown. To twist the relationship just didn't make any sense. But his unwillingness to do it made it an unwelcome task that must be performed to please Ramsay, which... was proper? He loved being made to do things. Why was this any different?

"Hit me, Theon. Pick up something from the table and hit me." Ramsay's voice is commanding but bright. Brittle. "I want four strokes across the back."

"Four?" Theon whimpers, shifting from foot to foot. 

"Four." Ramsay relaxes back into the restraints and flexes his neck. " _ Hard _ , Theon. If you don't do this right, you'll do it again and again until it's perfect." An old punishment.  Lick his boots until his tongue's numb. Scrub the floor until he can't move his arms. Suck his cock until his jaw is burning in pain. Get it wrong once, do it over and over until you'll never get it wrong again. Fuck. Theon shivers with conflicting arousal and discomfort. 

He stoops to reclaim the paddle but is slammed to the ground by a vicious kick to the biceps. "No, Greyjoy!" Ramsay barks. "I said get an object from the table. Now you've made me say it twice." Theon scrambles for the table, grabbing the riding crop. There's the start of a dull ache in arm which he knows will bruise deeply. He focuses in on the feeling, finding security and comfort in the pain. Yes. Follow the order. This is how it should be. 

Ramsay's eyes light up at the sight of the whip. "Good boy. And now. Six strokes across the back." He turns again, presenting his back once more. The red glow on his shoulder from the paddle is barely visible. 

"Six?" Theon asks. "Not, four?"

"No, not four. Six. And that’s the second time you’ve been told.” Even with his back turned, Ramsay's countenance is terrifying. Theon shakes his head. 

"Sorry, m'lord," he mutters, gripping the crop until his knuckles blanch. He takes a deep breath and slices it down.  _ Swish _ and  _ snap _ . Hiss of pain. Theon's body is baffled by the presence of all the usual signals but the absence of the hot flash of familiar white sensation that makes it all come together. He feels that lurch of certain doom when you miss a step and for a moment you’re certain you'll fall forever. His cock is at half mast, definitely enjoying the unpleasant orders, even if the violence saps his firmness from him. 

"How many was that, Theon?" Ramsay asks, softly. An often-repeated phrase. So many times, he's made Theon count out the strokes, checking and rechecking that he knows how many there have been. It's become ritual between them for him to ask that question after the first strike. 

"One, m'lord." Theon shivers, he's never counted out strikes he hasn't received. He's never given strikes he hasn't received. The wrongness of it seeps into his cock and sets his stomach fluttering. 

"Good boy. Continue." Ramsay lowers his head again, waiting. Theon gears up. Swings.  _ Swish. Snap. Hiss _ .

"Two, m'lord," he stammers out. Ramsay nods, rolling his shoulders. His back glows with two stripes. The first is raising, standing proud. The second still just bright red. Theon knows how the pain will be rolling across his back, somehow managing to both spread out from and flow back into the shape of the mark. His whole body echoing from it. He's envious. He wants that cleanness. That rightness. He wants that flat sharp pain. He adjusts his grip. 

_ Swish. Snap. Hiss _ . "Three, m'lord." And again, with barely a pause.  _ Swish. Snap. _ "Four." This time Ramsay grunts and Theon knows how the duo will have felt so much more entire than the single strikes before. He pauses, watching Ramsay carefully, giving him time and space to say that four is enough. Ramsay says nothing. Theon bites his lip. 

_ Swish. Snap. _ Another grunt. "Five." Ramsay nods, rocking slightly from side to side, spreading the pain out across his body. Theon glares at the stripes that should have been his. He raises the crop one more time.  _ Swish. Snap. _ Ramsay moans out and Theon finds himself nodding in satisfaction. He'd placed the last strike to angle across the previous five; one of Ramsay's favourite quirks. Already, a tiny bead of fluid is forming at the intersection of the first and final blows. "Six. My lord." 

The crop drops to the floor. Theon stands, panting slightly, transfixed by the sight of the swelling and reddening marks he's just inflicted. He's seen the aftermath of beatings on his own body countless times, but this is so different, actually watching them form, seeing them develop.  He wants to run his hands over them, feel the heat that must be radiating out. He understands now why Ramsay always wants to touch him, to lay his hands on those blemishes and absorb what he's just inflicted with all his senses.

A heartbeat later, Theon's heart drops and fear, shame and worry floods through him. "Ram?" He pushes his hair back from his face, steps forward with arms outstretched to wrap him in a hug. "Ram, I'm sorry!" He's careful to avoid Ramsay's upper back, knowing all too well how sensitive that skin will be, one arm curling round his waist, the other hand gently combing into his hair, stroking, soothing. He wants to console him, heal him, undo it all, put him back together again. Ramsay can't be beaten and broken. He's the foundation, the keystone, to everything in Theon's life. "Gods. Fuck." He has no words, can't even begin to apologise.

Ramsay accepts the embrace, nuzzling his head into the crook of Theon's shoulder. "You're such a good boy," he purrs. Theon feels the warm glow from praise kindle in his gut again.  _ Good boy, Theon. Does what he's told. Good boy. _ It's pathetic how much he fucking loves those simple words. How much it turns him on to be an obedient pet. 

Ramsay kisses the side of his jaw. "Do it again." 

Theon pulls back, startled. "What?"

Ramsay is grinning his shark's grin, face flushed, a hint of sweat beading at his hairline despite the cool air. "Do it again. Hit me.  _ Hurt _ me, Thee." 

"No, no, no." Theon shakes his head, retreating. "I've done enough. You'll have bruises. You'll hurt."

A flash of those murderer's eyes. "I  _ want _ to fucking hurt, you stupid cunt." There's a sharp jingle of chain as he snaps his body against the restraints in an attack; a savage dog on a leash. Theon scrambles back, missing being head-butted by a fraction of an inch. Ramsay snarls at him. "What part of this makes you think you have any fucking choice about what's going to happen,  _ Greyjoy _ ?" There's a clink and his hands are suddenly free from the hook, shoving Theon against the barn's stone wall. "Do you think I would possibly, ever, let you do something to me that I didn't want?" He presses his forehead against Theon's, pinning him to the wall and lowers his voice to a growl. "Do you think you can get away with saying 'no' to me?" 

Theon can barely control the groan that rushes up straight from his groin. His knees weaken, ready to drop him to cocksucking level at a moment's notice. This is Ramsay at his best. That pure, uncontained, ferocious rage. All that power. All that strength pouring over him. He closes his eyes and swallows. Ramsay's questions are rarely rhetorical. "No, m'lord," he mumbles, hating the hoarseness of his voice but loving the effect Ramsay has on him. He feels alight, alive,  _ hard _ .

Ramsay snorts. Theon is grabbed by the hair, pulled forward and spun round. He jerks his head back just as he's slammed back against the wall, catching most of the impact on his chest, but still scraping his chin and cheek against the rough stone. Ramsay's hands loop over his neck, still bound at the wrists. Half a dozen thin leather cords bite into the flesh of Theon's throat as Ramsay applies exactly enough pressure to make it clear that he knows exactly how much pressure is too much. His thumbs dig in viciously under either side of Theon's jaw and Theon's vision closes in as the blood to his head is restricted. He welcomes the moment of the dizzying, drunken, fade and surrenders just as Ramsay loosens up, letting his arteries reopen. Theon gasps for breath, seeing stars, colour slowly returning to the world. 

"Are you going to behave?" Ramsay asks him, all smooth politeness amidst the death threats. Theon wants to get fucked. Just here, now, like this with Ramsay's hands round his neck. His legs quiver.

"Yes, m'lord," Theon croaks, and can't help tilting his hips to press his arse against Ramsay's crotch. He feels the puff of air from Ramsay's amused smirk on the back of his neck. 

"You whore," Ramsay murmurs approvingly into his ear and Theon shivers with pleasure. 

Abruptly, he's freed and he drops into a boneless heap on the straw-strewn floor as Ramsay steps away. He lies still for a moment, letting his body figure out where it should be sending blood, letting the last remnants of the dizziness slide away. 

"Theon." Authoritative. Commanding. Theon pushes himself to his knees to turn to Ramsay, who is once again stretched out on the hook from the rafters. "Hit me."

Theon sets his jaw. If he has to do this, he's going to do it well. Ramsay wants pain, and Theon is nothing if not an expert in the subject. He picks up the short riding crop again and circles Ramsay, selecting a target.  _ Swish. Snap. _ Ramsay yelps. Actually yelps. The whip had landed across the back of his thighs and had obviously caught him by surprise. Theon cringes for a moment, unsure if he'd overstepped some invisible boundary. Ramsay chuckles throatily. "Yesss..." He nods. "Good boy. More."

"Do... Do you want a word?" Theon asks timidly, flexing the whip in both hands, assessing its spring. Ramsay is so particular and meticulous about his safe words. Even someone as addicted to pain as Theon has their limits. 

Ramsay snorts. "You'll stop when I tell you to stop. I don't need to pretend I don't want it to be able to enjoy it." His eyes crinkle warmly, softening the sting of that last comment. Theon blushes with a familiar flash of embarrassment about his predilections. Softly, Ramsay adds, "Don't try to be me, Thee. Just be you, doing something I want you to do. Yeah?"

Theon bites his lip but gives a tiny hint of a nod. He flexes the crop again. "Ready?" 

Ramsay stands on tiptoe and shakes out his shoulders before sinking back down, almost swinging from the hook and chain. He exhales and shuts his eyes. "Go."

Theon punches him in the solar plexus with the butt of the crop. Ramsay is thrown off balance, feet skittering on the straw-strewn floor. He yells hoarsely and hisses through his teeth. "Fuuuuck....!" Theon follows it up with another punch to the top of the shoulder blade - just at the bony part behind the point where neck and arm muscles meet - driving the domed head of the handle into his target as hard as he can manage. Ramsay grunts and jerks within his restraints, but Theon is stepping quickly around him, raining five short but very sharp snaps of the whip over Ramsay's torso, aiming for the lower ribs and the sides of Ramsay's body - exactly where he knows it would hurt the most. Finally, a kick to the back of the knees, forcing Ramsay's full weight to fall onto his assaulted shoulder. Ramsay roars, hanging from his wrists for a moment before regaining a foothold. His teeth are bared in a grimace, fists clenched, cock hard. Theon feels oddly proud. 

"Gods, Thee..." Ramsay is panting slightly, his eyes still screwed shut. "Where the fuck did that come from?" He rises on his toes, trying to rotate his shoulder as much as he can. 

"I... don't know." Theon toys shyly with the crop in his hands. "I just... I did what I'd want you to do to me." He glances at the table and moves to swap the short crop for the longer, thinner one. He swishes it through the air experimentally and then snaps it into his own calf. The sting is delicious and he grins unconsciously and whips himself again.

Ramsay is staring at him: shocked, awed, impressed, daunted. "...what the fuck is wrong with you?" He's smiling and teasing, but there's just a hint of a real question there. 

Theon shrugs. "What do you expect? Youngest child, always smaller and weaker than my brothers - and my fucking sister. My mother is mad. My brothers are dead. My father sent me away and now despises me for not being more like him. I had to grow up alongside Jon fucking Snow. The man who treated me like a son is dead. I betrayed both my blood family and the House that raised me, failed spectacularly at taking a castle and didn't actually murder my little brothers, even though the entire country thinks I did. And then you told everyone you'd cut my cock off. So." Theon snaps the whip down onto the table with a sharp crack. "Shall we continue?"

Ramsay opens his mouth to offer some kind of consolation or murmured nothing but Theon shakes his head stiffly: not now. There's a moment where it seems like Ramsay's going to stop it all and do something ghastly, like try to talk about all this shit, but he thinks better of it and simply goes limp again, letting his head bow. Theon exhales shortly, re-focuses. 

"I didn't actually  _ say _ that I'd cut-" Ramsay is interrupted by Theon cracking the whip across his buttocks. Ramsay yelps, unprepared. 

"You suggested it. Strongly." He strikes again. " _ And _ you didn't correct them when they jumped to conclusions." Another. Ramsay is chuckling despite the whipping. Theon lashes him three times in quick succession across his upper back, right over the first six bruises. Ramsay's skin breaks and glimmers of blood gather along the whip traces. Ramsay whines through gritted teeth, no longer laughing.

The sight of the blood makes Theon hesitate and he lowers his arm. "You okay, Ram?" 

"Hmn?" Ramsay is lost in savouring the sensations. "Oh. Yeah. I'm good." He wiggles slightly and a bead of blood begins to roll down his back. "Keep going." 

Theon watches that trail of blood make its way slowly down, already thickening and darkening at the top into clots that will eventually dry hard and glossy before cracking like ice the next time Ramsay stretches out his shoulders. He wants to scrape it off him and eat it. Not the red, liquid blood, but the dark, sticky, chewy stuff that would stick between his teeth and leave him tasting blood for hours. He frowns slightly. Blinks. No. He doesn't want that. But it's true that having the power to create something like that slowly descending drop of blood - not to mention all the welts and bruises - satisfies something in him that he hadn't known was there. And he wants to savour it with all his senses, to consume the moment and make it a part of him forever. 

"Thee?" Ramsay wiggles again, making the chain jingle. Theon pulls his eyes away from that single blood trail and runs his gaze over Ramsay's body, selecting his next target for the whip. 

Two dozen lashes down Ramsay's right side, from armpit to hipbone and up again, delivered as hard and fast as he could manage. This soft, tight skin yields easily, and score marks open up to weep more blood that drips and tracks down his body. Ramsay writhes, the asymmetric onslaught making him twist awkwardly to one side. Theon knows that getting matching abuse to the left will correct the imbalance and somehow made it feel more bearable. Which is why he ignores Ramsay's left side and places his next strikes over his chest and stomach.

With a latticework of whip marks over most of his torso, Ramsay is panting, keening out gutturally with every blow. Theon considers, walking around his subject. Two sharp lashes to the inside of his upper arm. Ramsay jerks sharply in the restraints. 

"Fuck! No!" His voice cracks on the word and he coughs. "Shit! Stop!"

"Shit, Ram. Sorry!" Theon drops the whip and presses his hands to the rapidly-swelling weals, trying to cool and soothe them. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?" 

Ramsay grunts and shifts uncomfortably. "I'm okay. I just... That was... unpleasant." He barks out a laugh. "Not sure why, but that's a no for me on the arms." He's flushing slightly, abashed, and although he's uncomfortable, he doesn't unhook himself from position.

Theon goes to the table and wets some strips of cloth in the bucket of water. He applies them carefully to the injuries, letting the coolness ease the sting and calm the heat. Ramsay mumbles appreciatively. 

"Do you want to stop?" Theon bites his lip, very worried that he'd gone too far. 

There's a moment of pause. "No... Just... keep it off my arms, okay?" Ramsay's lips twitch, a facial shrug. 

"Of course! I'm sorry." Theon's hands are shaking a little, anxiety rising. 

"It's fine. You didn't know.  _ I _ didn't know. It's okay. We've found out." Ramsay is composed and quiet, using the tone of voice he employs when Theon has nightmares and needs to be calmed back down.  _ It's okay. I've got you. I'm here. You're okay. We're okay. I'm here. I've got you... _ "It's fine. But... Thee?" He looks up with pleading eyes. "Um... My nose really fucking itches. Can you...?"

Theon laughs and obliges. Ramsay nudges his face against Theon's hand, nuzzling him. "You're lovely." Theon blushes. Stammers. Ramsay smirks at him. "My fucked-up little squid. Can take a beating that would ruin a warrior, but can't handle a compliment." He kisses Theon's hand. 

"A beating is much simpler." Theon mutters, and pulls his hand away - but not without pressing his palm against Ramsay's jaw for a moment. "Why all this honey? You don't have to court me. I'm yours." He spreads his arms and gestures vaguely at himself, at the scars, scabs, welts, burns, bruises, and marks that Ramsay's put on his body. Each one with a story of how it came to be.  Each its own moment of connection between them.

Ramsay smiles wistfully. "I know. I know you're mine. But I would have courted you - if I could have. I would have brought you gifts, written you songs and wooed you before the whole keep, if I could."

Theon rolls his eyes. "I'd have told you where to fucking shove it." 

Ramsay chuckles. "You probably would have. And I'd have backhanded you across the face for your insolence"

Theon smirks. "And then you'd have had me on my knees in moments."

"You're a twisted fuck, Thee." Ramsay grins.

Theon sticks his tongue out at him. "You wouldn't have me any other way." 

"Hmmn. Well. We'll see. I'm quite enjoying this violent side of you. Maybe we'll swap for a while." Ramsay muses, eyes teasing and bright. 

"Oh?" Theon tilts his head, frowning slightly. He's enjoying himself, it's true, but there's no way he wants to give up their usual dynamic - even if it would be in any way feasible once they got back to the keep and their usual public personas. 

Ramsay attempts to shrug, managing only to trigger a rush of pain from his shoulders, back and sides. He gasps, wincing. "Ah, fuck!" Theon bites his lip but can't hide his smile. Ramsay glares at him. "Stop smirking at me, you bastard. You're used to it. You get off on it!" The tossing of his head makes him wince again and he scowls in frustration.

Theon takes the cane from the table and runs his hands over its length. "Bastard? Me? I'll have you know I'm the trueborn prince of the fucking Iron Islands." He pokes Ramsay in the chest with the point of the cane, exactly where he'd punched him earlier. Ramsay squirms on his chain, trying to shift the contact to somewhere less tender. Theon adds pressure, knowing just how inescapably deeply pain on the sternum seems to hurt. "You, however..."

"Fuck you!" Ramsay snaps at him, but he's grinning and his cock is growing again and Theon takes it as a good sign so he steps round and cracks the cane across Ramsay's tight, canvas-clad arse. Ramsay yelps and tries to twist to turn to face him, but Theon is side-stepping and lays two more smacks across the same area in quick succession.

"You should be careful, boy," he growls, feinting with the cane to make Ramsay flinch. "A commoner like you, speaking to a highborn lord in such a way..." Another crack, slightly lower, just at the tops of the thighs. Ramsay groans but a glance shows Theon that he's hard, so clearly this game is doing something good for him. "One day, you might find that you get put back in your place." Six hard strikes: thighs, arse, low on the back, lower ribs, under the shoulder blades and one immense effort across them. Ramsay screams and blood sprays across the barn, flecking over the walls and the straw on the floor - the abused flesh finally giving way. 

Theon wipes at his face, feeling blood smear over his skin. He grins. Ramsay is whining and twisting in his restraints, face screwed up into a grimace. Theon feels a momentary stab of worry - but he hasn't been told to stop yet. He steps up behind Ramsay and grabs a handful of his hair, pulling his head back as far as it will go. Ramsay is panting, unfocused eyes staring up at his own bound wrists above him. Theon growls low in his throat and takes a gamble. "You  _ dirty _ , ill-bred, low-born,  _ bastard _ ."

Ramsay groans, his whole body shuddering, eyes closing. "Fuck." His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. His hips jerk and Theon smiles to himself, knowing very well what it's like to be so fucking hard and unable to do anything about it. "Fuck, Thee. That's... that's..." he trails off, wordless.

"I know..." Theon murmurs, twisting his grip on Ramsay's hair. "But this is just putting things back where they should be: you pathetically whimpering, while your  _ betters _ teach you your manners." He snaps the cane down the side of Ramsay's body, down the length of the whip cuts still oozing blood. Ramsay does indeed whimper. 

"Thee... Thee, could you..." His mouth opens and shuts wordlessly for a moment, shuddering through another wave of pain. Theon waits, just holding him by the hair, keeping him in this position. "I want it... this is all kinda..." Ramsay screws his face up, lips pulled wide in a rictus grimace. "I want it more... like..." he lets his jaw drop wide, eyes rolling up into his head. “I don't know how to..." He shakes, hips rocking again. 

Theon thinks wildly for a moment, then - still holding Ramsay tightly by the hair - he jabs the head of the cane into the bony part of Ramsay's hip. More of an assisted punch: blunt trauma. Ramsay grunts loudly. "Uh! Yeah... do that." Theon obliges, dropping the cane and using just the sides of his fists to punch again and again, aiming for bony and tender areas. Ramsay cries out with each blow. "Fuck! Yes. Gods... talk to me, Thee. I need..."

Theon clouts him on the side of the head, cutting the sentence off. "Shut up, bastard!" he snaps, channelling all the privileged, self-entitled highborn men he'd been forced to be polite to all through his childhood and adolescence. "When I want to hear the whingings of a fishwife's brat, I'll call for one." There's a certain haughtiness of voice, of complete belief in their right to do or say whatever they want to commoners that's projected in the voice. He continues to punch, going back over places already bruising. "Disgusting, snivelling filth. How  _ dare _ you?" He tries to remember what his father would have said; tries to remember how the Lannisters spoke to the keep servants, lets the words pour out of his mouth.

Ramsay keens, rocking back and forth on the chain. "Fuck, fuck fuck...." Theon looks around the barn for something he can use to give Ramsay the kind of pain he wants. All the toys that had previously been arranged so neatly on the table are too thin or light, too whippy. He grabs an old metal horse bit from a nail and smacks Ramsay across the back with it, its weight adding more force to his efforts. Ramsay yelps out and carries on with his breathless mantra: "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."

Theon continues to hit him until there's a clink and the bit goes sailing across the barn and disappears into a pile of straw, leaving him holding only a twisted metal ring. He swears and casts about again, not wanting to leave Ramsay too long and let him slip out of the mind-set. Nothing. The fucking barn has nothing. It has to be the only stable on the entire continent that doesn't have a fucking broom. In desperation, Theon tips out the water bucket and swings it. The wet handle slips out of his fingers and the metal rim smashes full force into the side of Ramsay's face.

"Ugh!" Ramsay jerks and then goes limp. Theon rushes over to him, horrified, but he's regaining consciousness already, blinking slowly and tentatively shifting his jaw side to side. "Fuck," he whispers and Theon clings to him, holding him tight. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Ram. I'm sorry."  

"Shush," Ramsay croaks, his voice strained from screaming. "You did good. So good. Fucking  _ good _ ." He tries to smile, but the side of his face is swelling fast and it's obviously painful. "I think I'm done, though." He rests his head on Theon's shoulder. 

"Of course. Of course," Theon fusses. "Come on, stand up. Gotta get you off that hook." He unsuccessfully tries to lift Ramsay while trying to avoid squeezing any areas that might be hurting. Ramsay gives a tired chuckle and gently pushes him away, stretching up on his toes and releasing himself. His arms fall down, the muscles too tired to hold them up, and he shudders in pain, legs collapsing under him. 

"Shiiiiit, Thee. My arms, my arms!" Ramsay's eyes are wide with surprise, a tinge of panic. Theon drops to his knees next to him, massaging his shoulders and upper back.

"It's okay, it's okay. It's just muscle stiffness. Your arms have been in the same position for so long. It's okay. It'll pass." He tries to be comforting, to be cool and calm like all the times Ramsay has been when he'd been the one on the floor whining incoherently in pain. "Just keep moving your arms, keep wiggling your fingers. Just move them gently, it'll pass." He tugs at the leather cords binding his wrists, yanks them away; grabs Ramsay's forearm and starts to gently rotate the shoulder joint. Scabs on his back crack open and start bleeding again. Ramsay groans. "Fuck, Ram. I'm sorry." Theon babbles. 

"Shush!" Ramsay flaps a hand at him and grimaces. "I'm okay. I'm okay. I just need some water - and some brandy." He shifts his weight, pushing himself onto his knees. "Help me up?"

"Yes, yes." Theon jumps up and helps pull Ramsay to his feet then runs to fetch more water and the bottle of brandy from the cottage. Inside, he banks up the fire and glances around. On the wooden bench is a pile of clean rags and lengths of clean cloth, next to a bowl of water and a mug of brandy. There are two pots keeping warm on the hearth: one with clean water that smells of cloves, lavender and mint; the other holds a soup of some kind. Theon's heart lurches - Ramsay always makes him have soup after any of their big games, telling him he needs to keep his strength up. He'd got this ready, knowing he'd be needing it later.  And the water for washing wounds, and the bandages. He always had these things ready, either already set out or within very easy reach, whenever they did something more violent. He smiles to himself and turns back the bedding so Ramsay will only have to collapse down onto the sheets to get into bed. 

On returning, Ramsay is pacing round the barn, swinging his arms and stretching his neck and shoulders, getting used to being able to move again. Theon glances anxiously at the blood still oozing from... well, everywhere. Ramsay smiles brightly - though lopsidedly - at him and takes the water, draining it off in one draught, then opens the brandy and has a generous gulp. He passes the bottle back but Theon just puts it down. Ramsay frowns. "Hey, you don't want any?"

Theon shakes his head. "Later. I need to look at all your..." he gestures vaguely at all of Ramsay who just glances down at himself and shrugs. 

Ramsay snorts. "I've done far worse to you, before. I'm fine. Little stiff. Bit achey, but I'm good." He swings his arms round and hops from foot to foot, demonstrating his haleness and takes another tot of brandy.

"But..." Theon begins, but Ramsay holds up two fingers. The 'quiet' signal. He falls silent, but only for a moment. "Ram, please... I just want to-" Ramsay sighs and Theon is slapped across the face hard enough to pop bones in his neck and make his head spin. 

"Quiet!" Ramsay snaps, showing the sign again. Theon quiets, head bowed, blood pounding in his ears on its way to his cock. Face slaps have always thrilled him. It's such a humiliating punishment. Not a punch, not a backhand; just a slap, like he's a naughty child. Of course, Ramsay knows this, which is one of the reasons he does it so often - especially in public. 

"Stop fussing, Theon. I'm fine. I'm not done with you yet." One side of his face grins wolfishly - the other just smirks through the swelling. "Come here." He pulls Theon toward him by the wrist and places Theon's hand on his hip. "Feel that." He guides Theon's fingers to a darkening swollen spot just on the iliac crest. Theon prods tentatively. Ramsay loves bruises and swellings. Loves causing them, seeing them, touching them, examining them, sharing them. His fingers can sense the change in texture from relatively pliable healthy tissue, to hot, hard and almost grainy tissue at the point of the bruise. Ramsay murmurs appreciatively as Theon pokes at the epicentre, shivering slightly as the pain is renewed. 

Ramsay takes Theon on a tour of his body, exploring all his new hurts and injuries. The more Theon examines and manipulates his bruises, the harder Ramsay gets. And the more Theon gets to run his hands freely all over Ramsay's chest, back, hips, and thighs, the more turned on he is too. It isn't long before Ramsay takes a handful of Theon's hair and turns his face to the right angle for kissing. 

Theon melts into the kiss, letting his body sink into contact with Ramsay's, feeling those arms encircle him and hold him close. Protective. He loves the smell of Ramsay when he's been doing something strenuous. Clean, fresh sweat, a hint of horses and hounds, a slight tang of the rosemary water he likes to wash in. And often, like now, the smell of arousal and sex. He clings to Ramsay, running his hands gently up and down his back, pressing on any raised welts he finds and loving the feeling of Ramsay's cock twitching against his hip in response. 

The kiss escalates, Ramsay sliding his hand down under the waistband of Theon's trousers, trying to reach his arse. Theon murmurs appreciatively and steps back, pulling Ramsay with him, wanting to lie down, or reach a wall, or  _ something _ so that he can get naked and get fucked. "Mmn, wait, hold on." Ramsay disentangles himself with some difficulty and reluctance. "I have a surprise for you." 

He crosses the room and pulls a black canvas bag out from under the table. "For you. Well, for you to use today, at least."

Curious, Theon unties the knot of the drawstring and reaches inside, bringing out a soft belt of iron-grey leather finished with a heavy silver buckle, exquisitely engraved in bas-relief with a reaching kraken facing a snarling wolf. 

"My belt?" He inhales sharply, staring at it in his hands. His belt. The belt Ned Stark had gifted him when he'd earned the right to wear a sword. The belt he'd worn the day he'd returned to Pyke - the same day his father had mocked him for his soft, fancy, Stark-tainted clothes. The belt he'd thrown into a chest and buried when he'd changed back into functional, plain, Ironman garb. The belt he'd dug out and worn proudly when he'd taken Winterfell and was calling himself King in the North. 

" _ My _ belt," Ramsay corrects him with a smirk. "Though you're right, it was yours originally. If you recall, you, ah... you gave it to me one night."

  
  


Theon nods. He remembers that night, the night Ramsay brought him back to the Dreadfort. He'd been captured, very roughly, by soldiers who upon learning his identity had bundled him inside a chest with a sack over his head to be transported and tipped out onto the floor like a hundredweight of potatoes, then handed over to a group of terrifying men holding even more terrifying weapons who seemed terrifyingly eager to try them out. Theon had got an erection within minutes. 

He'd been certain he was dead then. Right that moment. And, bound and at the mercy of murderers - and with the full weight of his last few months' bad decisions - he was actually okay with it. He'd fucked up, but he couldn't fuck up any worse than this, and soon it would all be over. But Ramsay had cleared the room, sent everyone away. And then looked him up and down, held his knife to Theon's throat, grabbed his cock... and smiled.

The next thing Theon knew, he was being bundled upstairs, bathed, fed, offered wine and a sackful of his own clothes and belongings and told to await an interview with the heir to the House. And Ramsay had stood there; looking, sounding and acting nothing at all like the animal of a man he'd been in the dungeon. He'd been grinning his bright, overly-cheerful smile and had greeted Theon warmly, as if they were old friends. He'd explained how Theon's short-lived reign of Winterfell was now over, and - having told everyone that he'd murdered and flayed the Stark boys - that Theon was now possibly the most hated man in the entire North and at serious risk of being killed - or worse. 

But here was Ramsay, on Theon's side and willing to keep him disguised and lodged secretly - but comfortably, as befitting his highborn status - until such time as the whole ghastly mess could be sorted out. And Theon, cold, hungry, ashamed and terrified, had accepted. Well then, Ramsay had said. First thing's first: the disguise. Of course m'lord couldn't wear quite such fine clothes around the keep as the sudden appearance of one so richly dressed and with the obvious bearing of a nobleman would immediately reveal his identity as a highborn lord, and then it would be a short guessing game to find out his true identity. No. Ramsay had clean, humble but serviceable clothes and worn but warm boots for him. To keep him safe, of course. 

And what's this? Such a pretty bauble! Oh my... a belt? What an unusual extravagance for an ironborn man. But... oh dear, that's such an unfortunately distinctive design, isn't it? There aren't very many people in the world who could afford such a fine object and who would have strong connections with both wolves and krakens... Yes... Quite the problem. Well. Easily solved. Ramsay would keep it safe for him. Here in his private rooms. Where even if it were to be discovered, it would be assumed to be a trophy of war and not raise any suspicions. 

Now then. The disguise is nearly perfect; the final tweaks can be finished later. Unfortunately, now is the delicate matter of uh... payment. Why yes, m'lord, payment indeed and payment well deserved for undertaking such an enormous risk, harbouring such a terribly, terribly wanted man. A single payment of ten thousand gold dragons should suffice to cover the costs involved of staging and maintaining such an important operation. No m'lord, credit cannot be extended. No m'lord, ransom cannot be sent to Pyke as it would jeopardise your safety - not to mention the strong possibility that Pyke would not oblige. No m'lord, the coffers and valuables of Winterfell have already been claimed and distributed amongst the victors. Yes, war is such a terrible time. Hmmn. It seems that this is a tricky situation indeed, m'lord. Such a pity. Well, best of luck to you, m'lord. You will be deposited outside the keep in the depths of night and may the gods keep you safe from your kin and countrymen.

Hmn? Another way? No, I'm sorry m'lord, I can't see any way around this situation. Unless, hehe, the godswood payment, hah, how ridiculous! Oh, the godswood payment? It's nothing m'lord. A peasant's folk tale. Of how the payment was extracted from those with no coin. Why, the debtor had to remunerate the creditor using coin, blood or flesh. Blood, m'lord. Or flesh. Well yes, exactly. Indeed. Oh. Well. It's virtually apocryphal, m'lord. But if you were to insist, it may be possible that an arrangement could be made...

And Theon had stripped, had been considerately offered lard to ease the way, and had presented himself - prince of the Iron Islands - to be fucked at knifepoint by Roose Bolton's bastard. And he'd loved every filthy, sordid, disgusting, wonderful second of it. Everything, from the way Ramsay simply shoved him into place without a flicker of consideration for his comfort, to the way he grabbed his hair and used it to pull him up to near standing for a better angle on his cock, to the smell of fresh sweat and horseflesh and the slap of skin on skin, to the knife - oh fuck - that knife at his throat, threatening him,  _ forcing _ him to comply. He'd come fast and loud the moment Ramsay had traced the very tip of the knife from his jaw up to his hairline, just barely grazing his skin, no more than a shaving nick, but drowning  _ fuck _ had it set fire to Theon's blood. 

And Ramsay had laughed, and pulled out and stood over him, cock proud, just watching him panting in a disgusting, humiliated heap on the floor, smeared with his own seed. And had hauled him up and fucked him some more. He'd used Theon's own belt to extract punishment for enjoying repaying his debt so much. Firstly several sharp slaps with the leather, then resumed fucking him and gave him a resounding whack across the arse with the buckle. And Theon had screamed, fully screamed for the first time. Opening up his throat and howling into the night. And had come again. 

They talked it through, afterward. Sharing Ramsay's one cup and three wine bottles. How they seemed to be two sides of the same coin. All that Ramsay wanted to take from people, Theon wanted to be taken from him. Everything Theon had been trying to goad people into doing to him, Ramsay had been trying to cover up having done. And when, in the early hours, Theon had commented that he wished he could carry on with this night; just never stop. Ramsay had shrugged. Why not? They could spin a tale. Theon was grievously injured in battle. Theon had gone missing in the mountains. Theon was driven insane by Bolton's Bastard; it wouldn't surprise anyone. 

In fact. Well, here's a thing. Theon's father was Ironborn, so he held strength and force above everything, yes? So Ramsay would reduce Theon to a snivelling, broken shell of a man. A creature so vile and pathetic than no ironborn man would ever claim kinship. Freed from his familial ties, Theon would have nowhere but the Dreadfort to call his home - all of the North satisfied that he'd met a suitably prolonged and gruesome end at the hands of one of the most notorious sadists in a long line of notorious sadists. Only they would know that it was an act, a lie to cover a truth so inconceivable that no one would even think to consider it. 

Achingly hard from Ramsay's detailed description of the crazy plan, Theon had toasted to its success and begged to be fucked again. Ramsay had courteously obliged, this time with Theon hanging onto his own belt, looped around the bed frame, as Ramsay pounded him into the mattress. He'd clung to that belt a hundred times since then. Once, Ramsay had commented offhandedly, "if anyone but you or me lays a finger on it, I'll fucking hang them with it, and then you can put it back." But it had never moved from its place of honour, hanging in plain sight on the bed.

 

Until now. Now it's here in his hands, and Ramsay's offering it to him. "...what do you...?" Theon is confused and holds a fleeting hope that Ramsay might want to recreate their first encounter. 

Ramsay cocks his head. "I thought that you might remember our... introduction?" Theon nodded eagerly, butterflies fluttering in his groin. "...and I wondered if you might like to... turn the tables?" Ramsay bites his considerably bruised and swollen lip. Theon blinks. 

"Turn...?" He's so startled by Ramsay actually asking about an activity - as opposed to telling him what will happen and doing it unless Theon vetoes the idea, something he'd only done a handful of times - that he doesn't actually understand the question. Ramsay opens his arms, looking down and his bloody and battered body, and realisation dawns. "Oh. Oh!" His heart races. "Really?"

Ramsay nods, smiling at Theon's slowness to catch on. "If you want to." He attempts a shrug. "I thought it suited today's theme."

Theon unwinds the belt, snaps the leather in his hands, gives it an experimental whack on his own thigh. Drowned god, the things this belt had seen... Ideas unfurl, ideas he'd never known he'd harboured. "Can I..." he coughs. “Can I put you, I mean, how I want you?" He's rarely put in charge of staging. He has opinions about it, which he expresses as appropriate, but just tends not to really care that much as long as he's getting fucked. 

A snort. "Of course! That's the point!" Ramsay kisses him, holds him close. "You do whatever you want, and I'll tell you if I don't want it, okay?" 

"Promise?" Theon is gripping the belt tightly with both hands. 

"Promise what? That you can do what you want, or that I'll tell you to stop if I want you to?" Ramsay smirks at him. 

"Yes. That. Both."

Ramsay rolls his eyes. "Yes, you can do anything you want, and... really? Do you actually think I would go through with anything I don't enjoy?" His lips twitch in over exaggerated puzzlement. 

Theon tilts his head, acceding acknowledgement. "Well, yeah. But... I want to be sure  _ you _ want it."

"Mother's tits, Thee! Stop dithering and fuck me!" Ramsay grabs Theon's wrist, pulls him to the middle of the barn. "Okay. So. We were doing pretty well with me here. I'd offer to string myself up again, but frankly, my shoulders are-"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Theon interrupts. "Fuck you? You want me to... fuck  _ you _ ?"

Ramsay spreads his hands in disbelief. "What the fuck have we just been talking about for the last forever?"

"I thought you just wanted me to hit you with the belt!" Theon holds it up as evidence. 

"No, you fuckwit. I want you to hit me with the belt while you're fucking me. Maiden's gaping arsehole, are you really that dense?" Ramsay is trying not to laugh, but not trying very hard. "Do your family have a kraken as their sigil because they all have tentacles for brains?"

Theon grumbles. "You just don't usually... I mean. I'm not that good at-"

"Be quiet!" The order is crisp and Theon shuts up, though he chews the inside of his cheeks as if eating the words he wanted to say. Ramsay places his hands on Theon's shoulders, looking him directly in the eye. "Theon. Stop thinking. Stop worrying. Do what I'm telling you to do and fuck me. Ah!" He signals for silence. "No.  _ I _ will worry about whether or not I like it. You just fucking do it." His hands slides up to grasp a chunk of Theon's hair and his voice lowers to a growl. "Understand, Greyjoy?"

Theon nods obediently with a small smile, grateful for having Ramsay set it out as an order. Everything is so much easier when you're just flatly told to do it.  There's a pause where neither of them moves, each waiting for the other. Eventually, Ramsay clenches his fist around Theon's hair and pulls him in for a kiss and then almost immediately wrenches his head back and pushes him down to his knees. Theon looks up at him with that wide-eyed, nervous expression that he knows Ramsay loves. The innocent in supplication. 

With his free hand, Ramsay makes a fist with his thumb tucked under the first finger: one of their signals. Theon smirks and sets to unlacing his breeches. He's greeted with a flag at half-mast and he peers anxiously up and Ramsay's glaring face. "Yeah. That was you being a halfwit." Ramsay prods him with a toe, threatening to kick. "So now you make it up to me." 

With a little shudder of pleasure, Theon sets to work, lapping at the head of Ramsay's slowly stiffening cock with his tongue, using one hand to apply some pressure at the base.  Ramsay moans appreciatively, and adjusts his grip on Theon's hair to guide him to where he wants him, the control and power adding to the sensations for him. The feeling of being used as an object, to be positioned and used at will sends heat and blood rushing to Theon's groin and his own cock begins to respond. 

Two taps on the head are all the warning Theon has before Ramsay forces himself all the way into his mouth barely a second later. Theon chokes but regains control of himself and savours the feeling of his nose pressed hard against Ramsay's pubis, jaw opened uncomfortably wide, fighting his gag reflex. Ramsay grunts and holds him there for interminable seconds before yanking him off to catch a breath. Theon's eyes are streaming and he's given just enough time to exhale and snatch a breath before Ramsay repeats the manoeuvre, this time thrusting slightly, fucking Theon's throat. Now, when released, Theon pants for a couple of breaths before eagerly returning to taking in all of Ramsay's cock, needing no encouragement. 

"Ahhh, good boy...." Ramsay purrs and Theon practically wiggles with pleasure.  _ Good boy, Theon _ . Continuing his ministrations, Theon tugs at Ramsay's breeches, pulling them down and helping him to step out of them, never letting up the blowjob. Usually, the impertinence of daring to undress him without instruction would have caused Ramsay to have slapped him at least for such an action, but Ramsay responds enthusiastically, following Theon's cues. 

Going in for another deep throat, Theon wiggles a small metal jar out of his pants pocket. His little pot of grease. He'd learned early on that it was his own responsibility to provide any nods to his own comfort, with Ramsay occasionally only prepping him with enough saliva to get himself inside. It had only taken a handful of episodes where he'd bled when he shit for a week for Theon to have found a way to keep lubrication with him at all times. 

Unfortunately, the pot is too oily for him to open one-handed and he's forced to pause his oral attention for a moment to get the fucking thing open. He takes the opportunity to take Ramsay by the hand and pull him toward the table, he shuffling backward awkwardly on his knees, Ramsay following good-naturedly after. Theon gently guides him so his back is against the table, arse just perched on the very edge, and then returns to his previous task with enthusiasm. 

Slowly, he encourages Ramsay to spread his stance a little more, one hand creeping up the back of his thigh, creating a smooth slick path upwards. Ramsay shifts his weight from foot to foot. This is by no means the first time they've switched roles, but it's fair to say that Ramsay is considerably less experienced at it than Theon. 

Reaching the curve of buttocks, Theon encounters his first sign of resistance. Standing awkwardly as he is, Ramsay is too tense for him to easily tease his fingers into the cleft. He contents himself with sucking cock and running both hands over those glorious, round buttocks for a moment, just appreciating being able and allowed to savour Ramsay's body on his own terms. After satisfying his need to grab a handful, Theon shifts himself slightly to the left, and tugs at Ramsay's right knee. 

It takes a moment, but Ramsay catches on to what he wants and lifts his leg. Theon slides his shoulder under Ramsay's knee and carries on with his blowjob, now with much better access. His greased fingers glide smoothly up and into the warm cleft. He explores leisurely, taking his time to touch and tease as much as he wants. 

Ramsay is actually shifting his hips over Theon's fingers, trying to place himself in the right position, by the time Theon decides to slowly press a finger in. Ramsay mutters to himself and shifts his hips again, trying to get it deeper. Theon withdraws, using one of Ramsay's own tricks: offer it and tease it but withhold it as long as you can and eventually they'll do it to themselves. Personally, Theon both hates and adores this game; it's intensely frustrating to experience it, but phenomenally hot to be turned into a writhing, gasping slut desperate to impale himself on cock.

Apparently, an expert ability in administering this particular type of torture doesn't make Ramsay immune to its effects and as Theon's fingers withdraw, his hips chase, trying to recapture them. Theon looks up at Ramsay's face and wishes he could capture that expression of concentration and frustrated desire to keep forever. Content with his teasing, he scoops more grease and gives in to what Ramsay wants, sliding a finger slowly in to the second knuckle, curving and probing, taking his time again. Ramsay has tensed a little, so Theon treats him to a sloppy moment of frantic cocksucking to take his mind off what's happening to his backside. 

Painfully slowly, Theon carries on with his advance, stopping frequently for more grease, until he has Ramsay slick and relaxed enough to be able to wiggle three fingers up into him and flex them about. He goes back to two for more manoeuvrability and spends a while thoroughly exploring and teasing, but purposely avoiding the place Ramsay is trying to get him to touch. Ramsay is rocking slightly on his fingers, chasing anything that feels good. If Theon had tried to administer his own pleasure like that he would have been punched up under the ribs to remind him that everything that happened to him was for Ramsay's benefit, not his. Theon's cock twitches at the thought and he flexes two fingers toward himself, nudging up against what a stablehand at Winterfell had referred to as 'the crabapple', whilst giving Theon a very thorough lesson in what to do with it. He'd been fifteen and that man had introduced him to quite a few new experiences before suddenly being dismissed without explanation.

He probes to find its outline and centre cleft, then strokes gently and rhythmically, occasionally fluttering his fingers. Ramsay's cock twitches and he grasps at Theon's shoulder, nails digging into his skin. Theon goes as deep into the blowjob as he can, forcing his nose into Ramsay's wiry hair and pulsing his fingers for one, two, three, four... He has to surface for air. 

"Thee, please. Fuck me. Fuck me." It's rare for Ramsay to be blatant and begging like this, but when he does decide to take it, he goes full in with no holds barred. Theon loves it. Loves knowing that he's providing sensations so good and intense that he can make Bolton's Bastard moan and plead. 

He stands and pauses to kiss Ramsay, before turning him around and unceremoniously bending him over the table. Ramsay reaches across it and grabs the far side, getting a grip. Theon pushes his fingers back in, and goes straight for the same place he'd had a moment before. He doesn’t have to search; he knows Ramsay’s body as well as he knows his own. Ramsay grunts and nudges back against him, fucking himself on Theon's fingers, lost in his own world. He doesn't notice Theon reaching for the belt where it lay next to them on the floor. 

Ramsay's starting to moan loudly, letting go of all trace of self-control Theon cracks his belt across Ramsay's bruised back. Ramsay jerks away in surprised with a low scream that gets caught in his throat. Theon accidentally jabs him at the back of the balls before snatching his hand back. "Shiiit!" Ramsay cranes his neck to look over his shoulder. Theon smiles sweetly at him and swings the belt through the air, reminding him of what the game was about.

Wordlessly, Ramsay drops his head to the table, readjusts his grip and waits, steeling himself for the belt. So Theon unceremoniously unlaces himself and presses his cock against Ramsay's backside, pushing against his arsehole. Ramsay lets out a grunt of frustration or satisfaction - or both - and bears down, slowly opening up and sliding himself down and around Theon. His flesh is gripping Theon's cock as tightly as a whore to a coin and Theon stares, mesmerised as his length disappears. 

There's a slowing of movement and some awkward uncoordination as they both adjust to the position and the feeling. Theon lets Ramsay set a pace to begin with, holding himself still and steady. Despite Ramsay's comments about doing anything he wants, he still needs this to be good for him. He can never quite let go of that need to be  _ good _ . Ramsay is happily thrusting himself back, moaning and mumbling to himself - he's always been a talker. By their standards, it's all very sweet. He smacks Ramsay with the belt again, three strikes on the right buttock and thigh. 

Ramsay shrieks and jerks himself away and off Theon's cock so Theon slams his hand down on the back of Ramsay's neck and pins him to the table so that he can fuck him properly. He picks up the pace, taking control for once. Ramsay gasps and moans, babbling incoherent filth at him with a recurring theme of "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..." Theon shuts his eyes and savours the moment, Ramsay hot and slick and clenched around his cock, completely lost in what Theon's doing to him. Theon's fingers grip his buttock, nails digging into the skin and creating handfuls of crescent-shaped punctures. 

He slaps the belt lightly over Ramsay's sides and back, not really putting any effort into it, just keeping up the tone, and an idea unfurls.  It takes him a moment to awkwardly thread the tail of the belt through its buckle with one hand - especially with Ramsay bucking about all over the place beneath him, being an underpaid whore trying to earn an extra penny - but he manages to create a loop which he swings over Ramsay's head. 

Ramsay squeaks questioningly, hands flying up to grasp it. Theon slaps his arse, right over a bruise. "No hands!" he snaps, trying to be authoritative. Ramsay takes a long moment to obey - a moment that would have earned Theon something brutal - but slowly returns his hands to the edge of the table, glancing back over his shoulder at Theon with an approving smirk. 

Taking courage from this approval, Theon takes a firm grip of the loop below the buckle - so that the noose can't tighten - and tugs back gently, making Ramsay tilt his head back and arch his back. Fuck, his arse feels amazing like this. Theon has a new appreciation for why Ramsay might sometimes put him into the crazy positions he likes. Ramsay is panting; less from the belt across his throat and more from the better angle this has created. 

Theon slowly pulls more, this time only holding the strap and watching the buckle slide steadily closer to Ramsay's neck and the loop get steadily smaller; wrapping the belt around his hand. When the cold metal touches the side of Ramsay's neck his hands fly up to feel what's happening. Theon growls at him, "...hands" and Ramsay immediately places them back on the table; obedient. "Good boy." It feels odd to be giving that praise, not receiving it, but Ramsay's shiver suggests it may be as effective with him as it is with Theon, in certain circumstances. 

Trying to keep a light enough pressure on the belt to stop the loop closing too much, Theon gently pulls up and reels Ramsay up onto his elbows and then virtually upright. Ramsay groans and rocks back onto Theon's cock with a new desperation, his hands flailing about awkwardly in front of him now that he has nothing to lean on. Theon grips his bruised shoulder and squeezes, pressing his fingers into the tender parts and making Ramsay shudder around his cock. "Fuck. Yes, do that," he manages to gasp out and leans forward, applying pressure to the strap around his neck. 

"You're going to choke yourself..." Theon murmurs, fascinated at the sight of the grey leather pressing into the smooth flesh of Ramsay's neck. Ramsay makes an affirmative moan and leans harder. Gods, he's so fucking beautiful, bent over to be fucked and actively contributing to his own discomfort; his face a perfection of desperation and pleasure. Theon wants to do this forever. Or at least until he comes. Which might not take long at this rate. 

The table is in the way; Ramsay's cock is distressingly out of reach for both of them. Theon grabs him by the upper arms and manhandles him over to the wooden bench where he derives great satisfaction from shoving Ramsay down onto his elbows so that his arse is in the air. Theon pushes his cock back in, gripping his hips for leverage and fucks him hard. He wants Ramsay to be feeling this every time he rides his horse for the next week, 

"Ugh. Yessss..." Ramsay's voice is hoarse - hardly surprising really. Theon tugs the belt to pull Ramsay's head back again, wanting to see the column of his neck bulging around the leather. Ramsay hisses, rocking back on Theon's cock with abandon. For a man who doesn't usually like receive a fucking, he tends to get very enthusiastic about it when it happens. It sums him up really; his entire outlook on life seems to be 'if you do it, do it hard'.

"Do you want to come?" Theon asks, rhetorically. Ramsay whines and bends lower, increasing pressure on the belt around his neck. "Touch yourself, bastard." Theon grins at the groan and clench of muscles that that word elicits from Ramsay's body. Ramsay's hand goes straight to his cock and he strokes himself wildly. He gags, the belt choking him. "You crazy fuck," Theon laughs. "You're doing that to yourself." He makes no effort to relieve the pressure on the belt; this is clearly what Ramsay wants. 

Ramsay splutters a little and eases up for a moment, drawing in breaths like he's drowning. "Fuck, fuck, fuck... Thee... Fuck me!" 

"Whore." Theon throws one of Ramsay's own favourite words back at him. Ramsay grunts an affirmative. "Dirty bastard slut, begging for his lord's cock," Theon hazards, not entirely sure if this is the right direction to be heading. 

Ramsay's entire body jerks and he leans again into the belt, rocking back on Theon's cock like it's the only thing in the world that matters. His hand, slick with sweat slips and he unbalances, falling onto the bench, his head hitting the wall, one arm over the bench, the other underneath his body so he can keep his grip on his cock. Theon drops the belt strap but doesn't stop fucking him, scraping his head and the side of his face into the stone with every thrust. Ramsay is babbling, but Theon can't understand any of what he's saying. None of it seems to be anything near to 'stop', though.

Theon reaches and grabs the loop of leather around Ramsay's neck and hauls him bodily upright. "If the keep could see you now..." he murmurs softly into Ramsay's ear. Ramsay shudders, crying out hoarsely. His body spasms and Theon can feel the orgasm shuddering through him. He holds onto the belt as long as he dares while Ramsay's release spurts over the wooden bench and straw-strewn floor, then yanks it loose when Ramsay's legs begin to fold under him. Theon pulls out and guides him to the floor, both of them panting and slick with sweat, smears of Ramsay's blood - fresh and clotted - all over their skin.

  
  


Ramsay rolls onto his back, grinning as widely as his bruised and swollen face will allow, chest heaving as he gasps for breath. He starfishes out on the floor, limbs loose, straw sticking to his damp skin. Theon takes a moment to admire him in his full, freshly-fucked, glory and then hauls himself to his feet , yanking his trousers back up. Ramsay tilts his head and regards him, upside down. 

"Where are you going?" he asks, puzzled, but far too relaxed to actually move. 

Theon smiles at him. "To get water, cloth. Clean you up." He starts to step over Ramsay's sprawled figure but is grabbed by the ankle. 

"Oh no." Ramsay's teeth bare in a wolfish grin. "You're not done getting me dirty yet." He puts an arm under his head, relaxing back, emphatically naked. "Finish the picture, Thee." Theon blinks, confused. He doesn't know what more he can actually do to him - at least, not until they've both eaten and rested. Ramsay starts to chuckle. "Seven hells, Thee, do you need written instructions? Perhaps a map?" He sits up, reaches for Theon's trousers and pulls them down to mid-thigh. "We're not done until you spill all over me. I want to be wearing  it."

Shifting awkwardly up onto his knees, Ramsay slides one hand up Theon's skinny, scarred stomach and curves the around his thigh to grasp a handful of arsecheek. Theon holds stock still, unused to having Ramsay on his knees before him like this. Ramsay looks up at him with one wide, innocent eye - the other being almost swollen shut - and starts to lap and lick at the underside of Theon's cock. Theon inhales slowly, transfixed. This is definitely not their normal dynamic - but then, none of this day has been - and he's been so hard now for so long and fuck, Ramsay is  _ good _ when he wants to be. And there's something startlingly compelling about Ramsay being so battered and blood-smeared and yet still applying such gentle, hot, wet, exquisite pleasure to his cock. Part of him is tense, waiting for the hammer to fall - or worse, for Ramsay to just stop and leave him to finish himself off - but the majority is just sinking into the feelings and enjoying the moment.

Pausing to give his abused jaw a rest, Ramsay carries on for a moment with his hands, stroking along Theon's length, sliding his thumb over the tip and carefully cupping and massaging his balls. He's smiling smugly; he knows exactly how Theon likes to be touched, knows just how to bring him to the edge. He uses his mouth again, teasing with the tip of his tongue, exhaling hot breath and almost, almost, sucking on it. Theon moans, his hips rocking forward, wanting nothing more than for his cock to be back inside that mouth.

"Do you want to come?" Ramsay asks, echoing Theon from earlier. Theon whines, and nods emphatically, clutching at Ramsay's head. Ramsay pulls away, leaving only a token hand on the base of Theon's cock. "If I let you come, you have to do something for me?" 

The faint tendril of trepidation Theon had been feeling rushes forward. There's a catch. There's always a catch with Ramsay. It's one of the reasons everything they do is so fucking good.  _ Yes, you can have incredible pleasure, but first... _ Ramsay wraps his lips around Theon's cock and pushes down as far as he can go - his gag reflex is notably not as well controlled as Theon's. Theon gasps and whines. "What is it? What do I have to do?" It almost doesn't matter: he's going to come soon anyway if Ramsay keeps this up, no matter what the consequences might be.

Ramsay hums, his mouth still full, and then pulls back, chin shiny with saliva and pre-come. "After you spill all over me..." he begins, and squeezes just behind the head of Theon's cock to add emphasis. Theon grunts, and his eyes flicker, trying to concentrate. "After you paint me," Ramsay repeats, a satisfied smile curving his lips at the shuddering of Theon's body these words elicit, "you have to clean me up..." he sucks on Theon's cock again. "With your tongue," he adds, almost as an afterthought. 

"Oh!" Theon's body twitches, "oh, fuck..." Order delivered, Ramsay redoubles his efforts, going for sloppy and noisy - just how Theon likes it.  Theon struggles to stand, his mind full of images of Ramay, streaked with matte dark red and pearly white, lying back and ordering him to take back his filthy seed. The vision shifts, now he's naked and bruised, on his knees in the great hall at the Dreadfort, Ramsay giving him the same order in front of the serving folk as they set up for dinner. Again, during dinner, the hall opulently dressed, expensive dishes on plates and highborn lords and ladies staring, aghast, at the depraved skinny whore feasting on cooling stickiness from his master's body. 

He's close, he's close. He awkwardly taps Ramsay twice on the head - a courtesy warning - and sinks back into his imagination. Back into the same dinner scene, Ramsay sprawled on the floor of the raised dais, Theon crawling over him, desperate to find and consume every trace of himself from him. The highborn folk stock silent and staring, judging, horrified. Jon Snow's face appears amongst their ranks, face a mask of disapproving distaste. Robb is there, along with his little siblings, Sansa turning her face away, Arya watching, absorbing, Bran and Rickon barely interested, too young to realise what's happening. Robb is rising from his seat as if he could stop Theon from debasing himself like this, but it's too late, far far too late. Catelyn Stark's triumphant sneer shines out at him - she'd always known he was rotten to the core. Ned's stony disappointment, his sister's outright laughter,his mother's tears, his father's murderous, unchecked anger and hatred. They're all there, they all know what a filthy, disgusting, cocksucking whore he is - has always been. Everyone knows. _Everyone knows_. 

Theon chokes back a whimper and spills, releasing himself over Ramsay's face and neck, his shoulder. His body shudders and Ramsay's arms raise to hold him by the hips, supporting him. Theon folds down onto the floor next to him, panting a little. His trousers bind his thighs together and he struggles to sit, getting tangled up in them. Ramsay giggles. Theon looks at him and his stomach lurches. His face is half ruined, swollen and bruised, and streaks of blood and come are all over him. Fuck, he's beautiful.

Ramsay looks down at himself self-consciously. Curiously, he swipes up a fingerful of seed swirled with flecks of rusty blood clots and examines it for a moment, before holding it out to Theon, waiting expectantly. Theon wrestles himself onto his knees and crawls forward to suck on that finger, swirling his tongue over it and savouring every last trace. Ramsay murmurs appreciatively at him, and kisses the side of his face. Theon licks his cheek, his chin, his neck; following his orders. His mouth is filled with glutinous bitterness and metallic grains which stick to the roof of his mouth and slowly dissolve, leaving the taste of blood in his across his tongue.

Crawling over Ramsay, Theon pushes him gently down into the straw and worships him, running his hands and lips and tongue over his beautiful, damaged body. Ramsay kisses him every time he comes close enough and eventually holds him by the back of the head and keeps him still, sharing a long, loving kiss, Ramsay tasting his own blood. They lie together for a while, bodies cooling, hay and dirt sticking to them, until the chill is no longer refreshing but uncomfortable. 

Theon kisses Ramsay one more time and reluctantly pushes himself up. He has to get Ramsay into the cottage, warmed up, cleaned and fed before he caught an infection. He curses himself for letting him lie in the dirt with so many cuts and wounds. They need to be cleaned and bandaged. Ramsay needs food, needs looking after. 

"Come on," he says, offering a hand. "Up. In the house. You need to get warm."

"Mmmn, in a minute..." Ramsay mumbles, eyes closed. 

Theon sighs. "No Ram,  _ now _ . You wouldn't leave me on the floor after what I've just done to you."

"I might." Ramsay grumbles, but he stiffly pushes himself up into a sitting position anyway, hissing with pain. "Seven fucks, Thee, I can barely move!"

Theon stoops to help him, bodily hauling him to his feet. "I let you get cold and didn't look after you," he frets. "I'm sorry Ram, I should have looked after you more."

"Oh shush." Ramsay tries to toss his head dismissively, but it hurts too much. "You didn't do anything wrong." The movement has reopened some of the cuts, fresh blood oozing out from cracks in delicate scabs.

 

They stumble out of the barn, back into the warmth of the cottage. Theon lowers Ramsay face down onto the bed, fetches water for him and goes to feed the fire up again. Ramsay grunts as he tries to shift position and Theon jumps up, wiping at his eyes. "Hey, okay, let me look at you." He smiles weakly and kneels next to the bed, gently taking Ramsay's hand. 

Ramsay attempts a lopsided smile. "Going to be my maester, Thee?"

"That's right." Theon tries to sound cheery and confident but inside he's fretting. Now that Ramsay's lying on the clean bedding, there seems to be an awful lot of blood. Theon is used to seeing blood, but it's usually his own. This feels so much worse. He scurries to fetch the pot of herbal water and the rags. 

"I'm gonna clean you up, okay?" He dampens a cloth and spreads it out on the webbing of blood on Ramsay's side. Ramsay flinches, hissing. Theon avoids rubbing, just lifts handfuls of warm water to soak the rag and loosen the clotted blood underneath. This has been done to him hundreds of times. He knows what to do. But his hands are clumsy and shaking and he seems to be hurting Ramsay far more than Ramsay hurts him when doing the same task. 

The cleaning seems to take hours. Theon is shocked at how much blood he can wipe off and yet still have more blood left to wipe. Some scabs crack and re-open, no matter how careful he tries to be and when it's time to turn Ramsay over so he can look at his chest, the clotted blood has stuck the sheet fast to his skin and has to be carefully soaked off to avoid ripping open every single one of the cuts there. Theon keeps apologising and Ramsay keeps telling him he's doing fine, even though he winces and grunts through the whole process. 

Theon examines every mark, but although there are a lot, nothing seems very deep. He's relieved; he has no idea how to stitch a wound, and isn't sure his hands would be steady enough to do it even if he knew how. Then he coaxes Ramsay into drinking two full bowls of water, and a bowl of soup, before allowing him a generous measure of brandy. He's exhausted but doesn't share the drink; he wants to be fully alert to anything Ramsay needs, wants to look after him - even though he's physically and mentally exhausted. 

Theon sniffs. He'd never really thought about just how much thought and care Ramsay put into keeping him safe and well. It was very easy to look at the horror story of scars on Theon's body and assume Ramsay was a cruel and uncaring person, but every one of those wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, every black eye had been iced, every deep cut had been stitched. Theon had always seen the Maester when Ramsay was unable to fix it himself, such as the time his shoulder had dislocated. He'd always had willow bark or brandy or milk of the poppy to help ease the pain when he'd needed it. He'd always been fed and washed and given time to rest until recovered enough for Reek to skulk about the keep again, keeping the gossips fed with new bruises to tut over. And when the gossips thought they had a juicy tale to tell, they tended to spend more energy on spreading that tale, rather than prying further into what exactly was happening in Ramsay's rooms. 

They curl up in bed together, Theon taking care to move slowly and not jolt the bed too much. Ramsay sighs; his face is completely normal on the left side, and grotesquely swollen on the right. "Gods, Thee. That was..."  _ Awful? Horrifying? A terrible mistake? _ Theon agonises while Ramsay takes another sip of brandy. "...fucking incredible." He smiles asymmetrically again. "You're wonderful. I'm sorry I made you do it, but it was so fucking... ugh.  _ good _ ."

Theon blinks. "Ram, I threw a bucket at your head. That's not exactly 'good'." 

Ramsay laughs hoarsely, then tries to stop as the movement makes everything hurt. "Yes. Yes you did, you cute little fuckhead." He squeezes Theon's hand. "You should have seen your face! You were going 'cane cane cane, fists fists fists, um... metal thing, metal thing... uh, um...  _ bucket _ !' It was wonderful."

Theon huffs. "I was going for 'aristocrat disciplines his insubordinate kitchen-boy', not 'cute'"

"Oh, sweetheart. You were  _ very _ aristocratic." Ramsay leans in for a consoling kiss, and then immediately dissolves into giggles. " _ Bucket _ ! Hah!"

"Oh, fuck off." Theon grumps but smiles too, happy that Ramsay was happy. 

"Hmn, and love?" Ramsay is starting to slur a little, he's had quite a bit of brandy but Theon doesn't really feel like he has any right to take it off him. 

"Yes?" Theon prompts, when nothing else seems forthcoming. 

Ramsay takes another gulp, leans in close. "You can  _ definitely _ do the prince-and-the-bastard thing again." He hiccups and groans. "Though maybe without quite as much of the rest of it, next time."

"I'm really sorry, Ram." Theon bows his head, twisting his fingers. He'd never attacked Ramsay like that. They'd wrestled, and boxed and once even staged a playful knife fight. Theon had fought back during games sometimes, even managed to get a few good clouts in, before Ramsay ultimately overpowered him; but never just hit and hit and hit him. He was a little scared at how he'd been able to do it. He'd always thought that that kind of raw brutality would have turned his stomach, not turned him on. But there'd been something in Ramsay's obvious, gleeful enjoyment of it all that had made him want to do more and more; give him more pain, make him feel more, show him that he could and would do anything he wanted. He'd pleased Ramsay a thousand different ways before, but nothing had felt anything close to as satisfying as making him hard by pulling his hair and calling him all the names that he hated. 

"Shush!" Ramsay slaps the bed between them, sloshing brandy over himself. "No sorries! You are my perfect little squid and you were perfect." He licks brandy off his fingers and drains the cup, tossing it off the edge of the bed. "And you did everything I wanted and more." He flops back into the pillow, sated. "Fucking amazing."

"No you." Theon smiles, curling up next to him and loving how Ramsay wraps an arm round him to snuggle him in.

"Pshh." Ramsay says dismissively and kisses him. "I love you, you freak."

"I love you, you bastard." Theon shakes out his pillow into a better shape. “Move your elbow, would you?” Ramsay grunts as he shifts stiffly and Theon snuggles into the crook of his arm. “You’re going to hurt so much tomorrow.”

“Eh, that’s tomorrow’s problem.” Ramsay mumbles, sleepily. 

Theon rolls his eyes. “You say that, but I suspect it’ll rapidly become  _ my _ problem when you’re too bruised to move or do anything.”

Ramsay kisses the side of his face. “Probably.” He attempts a lopsided, sleepy grin. “Don’t worry your pretty head, squidling. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

“Are you sure?” Theon frets. His predilection for pain is hardly a common trait, and he knows that it’s not one that Ramsay shares. There’s a knot of unease in his stomach that this entire day might come back to bite him in the near future.

“I’m sure.” Ramsay prods gently at the swollen and tender flesh around his eye. “And now I have a reason for those charcoal burners to be dead.” 

Cold surges through Theon’s gut. “Ram!” He rolls away from their cosiness, making Ramsay cry out as the bed bounces. “I don’t want to know about the people you kill!”

“Calm your tentacles, Ironborn.” Ramsay grasps his wrists gently, holding him still. “It wasn’t me, it was Roose. He sent me to tidy up for him.” He kisses Theon’s knuckles. “It wasn’t me!”

Subdued, Theon allows himself to be gathered back into a hug. “Are you lying to make me feel better?” he asks, unconvinced. 

Ramsay chuckles. “I assure you, that this time, I’m not. Though I would, if I thought it would help.” 

Theon snorts. “Thanks, I guess.”

A squeeze. “No, Roose had an… incident around here last week and I was sent to sort it out. Now I can go back, two dangerous poachers dispatched, with a battered face as evidence of the fight.”

“Oh, so all this was just a political expedition?” Theon waves gestures broadly at Ramsay’s bruised body. “And here was me thinking you wanted to spend time with me.” He grins, sticking his tongue out. 

Ramsay tries to wink, but the effect is lost with his one eye swollen shut. “It’s always good when two objectives are achieved with a single trip.”

“Glad to save you some time and effort, I’m sure…” Theon mock grumbles, wiggling deeper into the blankets. 

Ramsay kisses him again. “My efficiency just gives me more time to devote to you, sweetness.”

“Quite right too.” Theon mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed. Ramsay sighs contentedly, nuzzling into Theon’s hair.

“And tomorrow, you get to look after me all day long.” 

It takes a moment for the whispered words to filter through to Theon’s sleeping mind. “Fuck you,” he manages, the words thick on his tongue.

Ramsay smiles and shuts his eyes. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Did anyone make it this far?
> 
> This is my first fic on here, so please please please let me know if it was okay. All comments and criticism very gratefully received! Thank you!


End file.
